


You Can Leave Your Hat On

by dylanobrien



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ice Cream Store, F/M, Terrible Ice Cream Puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:39:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylanobrien/pseuds/dylanobrien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer jobs are the <i>worst</i>. Most of the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Leave Your Hat On

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't mean to write this much why did i keep going: an autobiography

Scott is dead.

Stiles exhales heavily, his palms slapping against his face as he rests his elbows on the cool counter surface. Seriously. Stiles is going to kill him — and he's gonna enjoy it too.

Oh sure, you know, he loves the guy like crazy. It's _Scott_. But even the time Scott spectacularly fake-vomited using a pineapple smoothie/tuna sweetcorn combo to derail Harris' chemistry class and rescue Stiles from a completely undeserved detention can't save him from this.

Boy's going down.

" _Let's get a job over summer, Stiles_ ," Stiles mimics in what could be Scott's voice, if Scott lost a little muscle mass and perhaps some testosterone. " _We'll save up a ton of money, Stiles._ " Lies. All lies. " _Free ice cream, Stiles!_ "

Well. Actually, that part's true.

But what's also true is that there's a new barista at Argent Coffee across the street. And what else is true? 'What else' is Scott taking at least three times his alloted lunch break every day to flirt — albeit adorably — over espressos, that's what. Leaving Stiles alone to fend off the hordes of teenagers and families who've descended on Beacon Chills as though the cutesy ice cream puns and semi-enthusiastic service will protect them from the blazing heat of summer.

Stiles is thoroughly supportive of the whole endeavour, don't get him wrong - one of them definitely needs to be getting some this year, hell yeah. Go Scotty. Hell, if need be, he'll even stand by the side of the bed with a hand-drawn sign cheering, "Go team!"

Though only if _completely_ necessary. Co-dependant relationship theirs might be, but it's not that dependant.

But of all the times for Lydia freakin'-Queen-of-the-world Martin and her entourage to choose to cool down in the air-conditioned ice cream parlour, it just had to be the moment when he couldn't tap out for his own break and hide in the back. No, instead he gets stuck serving Jackson Whittemore's stupid smug grin, and taking the bogus sympathy about how _terrible_ it must be to be stuck _working_ for the whole summer while everyone else was so clearly _enjoying themselves_ , with nothing but a richly sarcastic (yet ultimately professional), "Hope you have a _swell day_!"

Stiles scrubs at a particularly stubborn spot of _Banana Cabana_ that he's somehow spilt on the register with a damp cloth and keeps half a resigned eye on the unruly clique made up of his classmates, who've taken over both of the tables in the tiny parlour. Scott had better arrive in the next thirty seconds, or swear to God Stiles might have to start seriously considering drowning himself in the rocky road.

"Nice hat." He hears from nearby. Stiles looks up, expecting the return of Jackson and already preparing ways to retort subtly enough to not risk his job, only to see an unfamiliar girl peering down at the mint chocolate chip. Her straight, dark hair falls around her face, mostly obscuring it from where he stands, and her hands are shoved in the pockets of her jacket as though she doesn't even notice that it's burning like the surface of the sun right outside the (sweet, sweet air-conditioned) room.

"Thanks, I brought it from home." Stiles says cheerfully — because hell if that's not just the _worst_ part: his stupid, stripy paper cap that doesn't sit right on his hair, that he isn't allowed to take off and he definitely is not allowed to shred and mix in with the mini marshmallows (he's double-checked). Replications of the familiar pastel stripes adorn the walls around them — as well as his ice-cream stained apron — so he understands that it's a design choice rather than an attempt to actively torture him, but he doesn't have to appreciate it.

At least when Scott's nearby, with his own dumb hat unsteady but still perched jauntily, it's — well, it looks twice as ridiculous, but at least Stiles isn't the only one.

The girl doesn't look up from her inspection of the uninspired flavours, but there's a small upward turn he can see to her lips that he's counting as amused. Instead of ordering though, she presses her finger against the sneeze-guard, tapping a nail against the glass.

"Hundred Years... _S'more_?" She eyes him then with a wholly unimpressed smirk, and he shrugs good-naturedly.

"Educational _and_ delicious," Stiles defends, one hand already fumbling under the counter. "Hey, if you think you can do better..."

He drags a plastic box out and sets it on the counter with a small clatter. The girl doesn't say anything, but the skeptical rise of her eyebrows speaks volumes.

"It's the suggestion box," He supplies, in case the _SUGGESTIONS_ in Scott's untidy scrawl across the side was too much for her to take in. He understands. He's in awe of what this box holds sometimes, too.

It doesn't seem to be the contents that have her stalled, though. "It's a trash can," She points out, taking a cautious step or two closer until the counter is the only thing between them.

Stiles is self-aware enough to realise that the _supernova_ hot girl making conversation with him is either just being polite, or is part of Lydia's whole queen of the beehive thing and the conversation is building to some inevitable conclusion where she twirls a lock of hair around one finger and asks him why he doesn't just, like, get money from his parents. He shakes the box, listening to the rustle of paper inside.

"Maybe in another life," he explains, one hand rested on the lid almost fondly. "Our boss has this bit where he pretends it's a real one... It's a whole 'thing' he does."

Stiles doesn't elaborate on the many times the joke has backfired, which is... every time. Stiles was perfectly content to let the pantomime continue, but Scott finally took pity on everyone and did what he could to make it clearer. Scott's a better man that Stiles will ever be.

And plus, that's not even getting into why they need the box in the first place. Apparently the quirky ice cream names are an open invitation to every six-year-old boy or middle-aged 'cool dad' to one-up the shop with their own terrible ideas. Stiles doesn't mind the kids' suggestions so much, if he's honest, although he gets _Poop-Colour Chocolate_ often enough to suspect it's just one persistent preteen. Or Scott, because Scott has that humour type and Stiles sees him giggle every damn time.

The girl eyes him speculatively. "Uh-huh."

"We're introducing a new flavour next month." Stiles waggles the box, towards her this time. "Cinnamon and pear. If you're interested."

She nods thoughtfully, and returns to looking at the already-existing categories in the display case. Stiles waits for a beat, before he returns the box back to its space under the register, feeling oddly let-down. Like a thirty second conversation was enough to be let down by. He shook the feeling off.

Seriously though, where the hell is Scott? He really doesn't want to go as far as actually calling him unless it's an emergency, but this is getting ridiculous.

"Pear-wolves." The girl announces suddenly, and Stiles' head shoots up in surprise, his hat askew.

"...What?" That can't have been what he thinks it was.

"Pear-wolves. Or Pear-wolf." She looks at him when he doesn't answer, his mouth unattractively working to form a response. "You know... Like werewolves?"

It's the first time she's looked anything less than supremely confident for the entire conversation, a waver of uncertainty in her eyes, and he fumbles to reassure her. "Yeah, no. Yeah, I totally got it. _Pear-wolves_. I got it."

There's clearly hope for her after all. Him less so, however, if the wary squirm she gives is anything to go by. "Um. So do I have to throw a parade about it, or can I just...?"

"Yes — oh my God, yeah—" Stiles ducks down for a notepad and hopes the seconds of obscurity it gives him will get rid of the red blotches of colour flushing his pale cheeks, though he knows better than to expect it. _Pear-wolves_ , Jesus. He reappears with a strip of paper he's torn off one of the pages, and she's already holding the pen that normally lives on the register. "Do it, write it down, God. Definitely. I might just have to take credit for that one." He leans against the counter as she scribbles it down, a small smile playing on her lips.

He holds out the box to her when she's done and she slips it in, then returns the biro to him. He accepts it back with a small flourish, and a murmured, "... _Pen_..." that is almost definitely a _thousand_ times more awkward-sounding in reality than it had been in his head.

Self-awareness. It's a curse.

The girl is still standing there, though, without the eye-rolling and uncertain self-doubt that usually accompanies any of his few conversations with the 'cool crowd' at school. It's probably because she doesn't want to alienate him before she actually orders.

Stiles scratches at the back of his neck as she turns to the display case again. "Is that all the _'Cherry Potter'_ you have left?"

He doesn't even have to look to know the answer — it's mid-afternoon, and the cherry is bizarrely popular around here. "Yeah, sorry about that. We'll probably get some again tomorrow."

She nods absently, already scanning. "Can I get the mint chocolate chip?"

"Sure, what size?" He flips the scoop over in his hand, preparing to reach over.

"Whatever's biggest," She almost pleads, and Stiles pauses, switching tactics with a sudden burst of inexplicable bravado.

"Sure." He picks out the pint cup size, almost a tiny bucket, that he's assuming is for the group still taking up most of his seats and paying them no attention, thank God. Then he puts it down in front of him. "If you say the name."

There's a moment of hesitation. "Excuse me?"

"The name. The ice cream name." He fiddles with the scoop, trying to avoid coming across as too aggressive. The posture says defensive, but the glare says no one will find his body.

"Say the ice cream name," She repeats flatly, and he nods.

"Yeah! It's right there in front of you. I mean, who knows which one you're talking about? I could get the wrong one. Then I'd have to throw the whole thing out, and no one wants _that_. That's just tragic," Stiles points out, and it would be valid except that there's only one flavour that comes under mint chocolate chip, and it's _mint chocolate chip_.

Her lips thin as she presses them together tightly, and he can see her discomfort as she glances down at the small sign and works around the words. Finally she grinds them out, around a sigh. " _Macho, Macho... Mint_."

Stiles tries to smother his grin, he really does, but he can't hide the small snort that escapes him. He definitely catches a reluctant grin on the girl's face before she looks away, though, so he gets busy scooping, a happy twist in his stomach.

No one's that desperate for ice cream.

"You want me to bring it over?" He says as he scoops, inclining his head at the tables. She glances over, her brows furrowed.

"Oh, I'm not with them." She shakes her head like the very idea is crazy, and he immediately feels dumb.

"Oh. God, I'm sorry. I just assumed—"

It's her turn to snort, derisively. "This is for my sister. You seriously thought I was with _them_?" It only takes one small quirk of her eyebrows to somehow convey her deep disdain for the idea. Stiles can't help but feel a little insulted, because _them_ includes the goddess that is Lydia Martin, but it also includes Jackson, so he can't exactly disagree.

"You're right, you know what. That was completely my bad. Please don't sue." There's little reprimanding voice that sounds weirdly like his father telling him he probably shouldn't be giving out free stuff just because there's a pretty girl — but maybe just one time is okay. He reaches for one of the small sample cups. "What's your favourite?"

The girl seems alarmed, but surprisingly gratified at the offer. "I was just joking, you don't have to do that—"

"Please, that was practically defamation of character. Plus, you're getting this huge bucket and it's not even for you? Come on, just pick a flavour." He waves the scoop, and her eyes dart towards the case.

"Um... _Attila the Honey_?" She tries, and he immediately gets to work scooping. He places the tiny cup beside the bigger one, rings her up for a regular, and is waiting for her card to go through before he finally convinces himself: screw it, he's come this far.

"My name's Stiles, by the way." He attempts as casually as possible — not casually enough, from the discerning look he gets in return.

She slides her card back into her pocket, picks up the ice cream, and plucks a cheap plastic spoon from the cupful to the side of the register. "Thanks for the ice cream, Stiles," she replies, just as casually, and turns to leave.

Stiles lets out a breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding in a rush, trying to stop a very obvious and stupid grin from forming. That definitely just happened, right? Casual flirting, that was what that was. That was a completely normal, adult-y thing to do. He was seventeen years old now, he was mature enough to just flirt casually with a girl, with no expectations. That was awesome. He could totally pull that off!

He watches her head out, neatly sidestepping Scott as his buddy barrels in, sweating from the sun and obviously in a hurry. Stiles straightens himself up as Scott glances suspiciously at the group of their classmates as he passes them, but comes around the counter already tugging his apron on over his work clothes.

"Dude, I completely lost track of time, I'm sorry—" He starts, apologetically, but Stiles cuts him off.

"Don't worry about it, man, I got you covered." Stiles is already untying his apron and pressing it against Scott's chest, looking longingly towards the back room for his own break. He'll let him live. This time.

Scott tries to settle his hat properly on his head. "Did I miss anything?"

Stiles hesitates in the doorway, and then turns back to grin at him. "Nope."

 

***

 

He's not expecting the girl to come back, not really. Oh he's hoping, sure he is. But no one that hot — and that awesome — is ever really single enough to consider him an option.

Which is why when she turns up almost a week later, right beside Boyd (or 'Just Boyd' to every new teacher), who's in Stiles' Econ class and who always has a table to himself in the school cafeteria, Stiles can't even find it in himself to be surprised.

Disappointed, maybe. Not surprised.

"Hey. Hi," Stiles fumbles with the paper towel dispenser he's restocking, unsure which of them he's addressing and glad that Scott's at the other end of the counter, too far away to hear the train wreck this would inevitably become. He's under no illusions: if Boyd's here to rag on him for hitting on his girlfriend, it could conceivably end in Stiles' actual death.

The girl hops up onto one of the stools along the counter, the one directly in front of him. Stiles catches the curious glance Boyd sends her way, and clears his throat. "So, uh, how can I help?"

The girl lifts one shoulder in a delicate shrug. "I don't know. How can you?"

Stiles spares another quick glance to Boyd, who stares unflinchingly back, and _seriously_? With the completely weather-inappropriate clothes, and the scowling, and the giving nothing away — it wouldn't take much more to convince him that these two are part of a gang. Maybe the ice cream parlour is some kind of a neutral zone where they all have to make nice. That would be awesome. Or maybe he's being recruited. Less awesome, could be some threatening of lives. But still cool.

"Uh." He says eloquently. "Well. This is a store, so. I can probably sell you something. Just... throwin' that out."

He looks between them. Boyd shakes his head, long and slow, and Stiles' mouth is already halfway working through a baffled response before the guy just moves away to the other end of the counter to examine the different ice creams. Scott, like a true bro, almost instantly engages him in a (mostly one-sided) discussion, thus keeping his attention away. When Stiles turns his attention back to the girl, she's already studying him, eyes lingering on his white button-up shirt.

He looks down at himself, hands already groping around the fabric. "What is it, did I spill something?" He can't see anything, but the lighter flavours don't always show up to him in the artificial lighting. By the time he looks back up, her eyes are on his face, unconcerned.

"No." She says easily, but before he can question her further she's already eyeing up the menu over the counter. "You do shakes here?"

Her voice is slightly lower than he remembers. Not that he's been thinking about it, or whatever. "Uh, yeah." Stiles turns to check the menu himself, almost reassuring himself that he hasn't been imagining making them all summer. "Yep, we definitely do."

"Okay. Well, whatever's good." She sits back, tangling a leg around the stand of the stool, and Stiles is momentarily stumped.

He doesn't even try to understand people who say that to him — like if there's chocolate on the menu, _why the hell would you pick anything else?_ — but instead of going straight for his standard 'I'll make your damn decision for you' chocolate brownie sugar nightmare, he finds himself actually wanting to _impress_.

Crap.

After a second's hesitation, he reaches for a tall glass. "So, you know Boyd." He says as nonchalantly as possible, starting to prep the shake.

It's not really a question. He's not sure how to make it one.

"Uh-huh." She replies indifferently, glancing over to the guy for a second before she's back to curiously watching Stiles' hands work. "He's cool."

"And beefy," Stiles agrees, quietly. She doesn't give any sign that she heard, so he continues. "But you didn't meet him at school, right? I mean — I just meant — I don't remember seeing you around BHHS, so I guess you go somewhere — not there—"

"I'm starting there next year." She saves him from explaining further and making an idiot of himself (she's about seventeen years too late for that), but her fingers are fiddling with the edge of the pile of paper napkins he's abandoned to make her shake. "I just moved back to Beacon Hills to live with my brother." She hesitates, then continues on like she's challenging him. "I've... been in foster care since I was eleven."

Her gaze hold Stiles', waiting for whatever uncomfortable sympathy she probably expects the words to elicit. He doesn't say anything for a moment or two, just keeps working.

She doesn't need to elaborate: he can hear implicit reasons behind the foster care as well as if she'd stated them aloud, but he understands. God, does he understand. He knows plenty of kids just the same as her, teenagers forced to become adults way sooner than they should have been. Some would say the same about him.

"That's gotta be rough, huh." He says carefully, reaching for the whipped cream. He's not expecting her to relax minutely, with the soft raise of one graceful eyebrow.

"Tell me about it." The smile is small, private, but it's there, and Stiles take a second to enjoy it before he produces the finished shake.

"And... Voilà!" He announces, completing the final touch — drizzling honey from a squeezy bottle on the top. He slides it over, and she watches it contemplatively. "Try it. It's, uh, lemon and honey. Just — last time, you picked the honey ice cream, so I figured — well, what goes well with honey? And I guess everything does, so I just thought..."

She doesn't look like she hates the idea. She also hasn't instantly dived on it, which is sort of what he'd been going for.

He's not proud of the speed with which he does it, but he more or less re-examines their every interaction in under two seconds. "Unless you're allergic to citrus, or — are you allergic? God, I should've checked, that was stupid of me. Look, I'll just remake you something, whatever you want—"

With a wry quirk of her lips, she reaches for a couple of straws and is a quarter of the way through the shake before he can even remember how he was going to finish the sentence.

She breaks for air almost fifteen seconds in and settles back, her small, pink tongue darting out to lick the residue from her lips with a slightly breathless and almost inaudible sigh of contentment. Stiles almost chokes on his own inhalation. He presses his lips together tightly to avoid mirroring the action, but a quiet, " _Oh... God_ ," slips out before he can stifle it.

There is no way this is seriously happening to him right now.

He glances over to make sure they're not being scrutinised and instead finds a sight maybe ten times more disturbing. "Oh my _God_ ," He says again, loudly this time, and the girl is startled into looking up.

"What?" She follows his eyeline and turns around before he can pass it off as nothing. It shouldn't be surprising at this point when she swivels back to him to roll her eyes. "Oh. Gross, aren't they?"

Stiles glances between her and the booth where Boyd's being scaled like a climbing frame by a blonde chick he vaguely recognises.

"Um, yeah." He even manages a quick laugh, and she returns to the milkshake. After a moment he catches her eyes flick to him, though, and he knows — she knows _exactly_ what he'd been assuming about the two of them.

He should be pissed that she played it that way, but instead he just feels weirdly turned on. Maybe he's some kind of masochist. The thought doesn't bother him as much as it should.

"It's alright." She finally says, stirring the straw idly in the glass.

"Wha— _Alright_...?" Now that's just being needlessly petty. Stiles has had rave reviews for his shakes, okay? _Rave reviews._

She shrugs. "Sure."

Alright. He's 'alright'. "Well, I guess you don't _have_ to drink it, if it's substandard, or whatever..." He's taking a risk, he knows, when he reaches out, not really intending to take it back — but it pays off when she slides it out of his reach, closer to herself.

"Oh, you don't have to do that. I said it's alright." She says, a little too quickly, and he grins.

The package of paper napkins still lies between them and he returns to what he was doing before they entered, refilling the dispensers to his side. She starts picking at the plastic of another wrapper herself, and he holds out an empty dispenser for her to stuff them into. Flirting on company time was allowed as long as he was working, right? That had to be in the handbook. Somebody's handbook, somewhere.

"Hey, Stiles!" The blonde chick is suddenly on the girl's other side, leaning against the counter, and Stiles starts in surprise.

"Hi — uhh..." He knows her, definitely. Well she knows him, so he should. It takes a second or two for it to sink in, and he double-takes. "... _Erica_?!"

He probably shouldn't sound as incredulous as he does, but he's not sure he can help it. When school had finished for the summer, Erica had been a quiet girl who used oversized clothes to hide herself. All he really knew about her was that she had epilepsy, though he should probably feel bad about that. Now though, she's... Wow. Like... _Wow_.

He's worried she'll take offense at the disbelief, but instead she just preens under his twice-over. "Yeah."

There aren't a whole lot of ways to ask the question without sounding like a complete douchebag, so he tries for an indirect approach. "You, uh, wow. You had a good summer?"

She's leaning close enough to the girl — holy God, he still doesn't even know her _name_ — for him to safely assume they're friends, but he still catches the roll of the other girl's eyes in the same moment he really becomes aware of Erica's incredibly low-cut top, where he's very determinedly Not Looking.

Unwilling to jeopardise whatever fledgling bond was starting to grow between them, Stiles clears his throat instead and changes the subject as subtly as he knows how. "Hey, so you and Boyd, God, that's crazy. How long has that been happening?"

Erica glances back to her boyfriend, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief now that she's sufficiently distracted from the frankly predatory gaze she'd been eyeing him with.

"Oh, just a few weeks." Erica straightens up, thank God, and turns away. "Your sister's waiting, Cora."

 _Cora_. Stiles holds his breath.

"Are you going to do this to _every_ dumb schoolkid you see this summer?" Cora murmurs to Erica in a low voice that Stiles presumably wasn't supposed to hear.

"Probably." Erica shrugs, and heads back. Cora slides off her stool with a quick smile to Stiles, and he lifts his hand in a half-wave as she joins the other two, Boyd carrying another pint of _Macho Macho Mint_ under his arm.

He can't leave it like this. "Wait, just one sec—"

She hesitates before turning back to him, but he suddenly can't remember the way normal people do this kind of thing. He's still trying to figure it out when she gets antsy with the silence. "Did you... want something?"

"Your number?" He tries, before immediately backtracking and trying to fill in a little more. "If you wanted to — I don't know, do something. With me. Maybe I could call you so that we could do... that." Smooth as silk.

She regards him for a second, eyebrows raised, and he thinks — hopes — the slight smile on her face is more that she finds him cute, rather than she wants to literally eat him whole, though he could be down with either under the right circumstances. She takes a step towards him and he flinches involuntarily.

He's not sure whether he was twitching away from her or closer. "Please don't kill me," He says instead.

The grin on her face stretches into something that can only be described as _wolfish_ , and she steps back up to the counter, shaking her head. He watches her as she takes a serviette off the pile he's in the middle of stacking and reaches for the pen from the register, then scribbles something down — he catches a seven and a six-two — before she picks up the rest of the pile. He's almost helpless to watch as she slips it in with the others, reaches for an empty dispenser... and seals it.

She passes the dispenser into his dumbstruck hands and follows her friends out.

It's a moment or two before he remembers that he's not alone. Scott's wide-eyed and beaming at him from the other end of the counter. " _Dude_!"

It's another minute before he realises that he never charged her for the shake.

 

***

 

He watches the dispenser like a hawk. Every time a hand even _hovers_ near it, he's distracted from his tasks, eyes scanning every corner for a telltale black scribble. He can't just reopen it and search through them, because — well, a: it's pretty grossly unhygienic, b: it would feel bizarrely like cheating, and c: he and Scott have been complaining about these dispensers for the entire summer because the catch to open them is on the inside, which means it needs to be empty. Short of that, the only other option is to pull them all out one by one himself, and that's just wasteful.

The lack of a call doesn't seem to bother her, though. Three days later, she settles on a stool at the far end of the bar. Scott kicks (literally _kicks_ , you're a good friend Scott) him away from the ice cream display case to man the register, which is close enough to her to hold a conversation.

She hates movies intended to make people cry, he loves picking at plot holes in mindless action movies, and they find a common ground in crappy supernatural B-movies. Werewolves over vampires every time, and she has a soft spot for Van Helsing ("What can I tell you? It's Hugh Jackman, you know?" — which he can't compete with, though he can empathise). She stays long enough to finish her shake this time, before she gets the usual mint chocolate pint and heads out.

Two days later, she's back again.

He doesn't question it. Mostly because he's already riled up about some jerk in a Camaro who cut the Jeep off on his way in to work that morning. His annoyance provides her with a lot more amusement than he thinks it should, given that he seriously could have been killed, okay, so would you _stop_ laughing about it? He's laughing too though, so maybe he isn't as mad as he thought he was.

She doesn't even get any mint chocolate chip that time. There's no way one person can eat that much that fast anyway.

The next time she comes in, he's rushed off his feet and in no state to maintain a conversation, because it's a Saturday and Scott had either _better_ be dead or he was _going_ to be (he stops himself thinking that almost immediately, because it's not funny when it's true). Cora takes his pointy paper hat from him and tries to wear it with a straight face while kicking _ass_ on the register, and together they manage to keep the after-lunch rush of beach-bound crowds flowing smoothly enough to stop Stiles from tearing his hair out.

Scott returns near enough to the end of the crowds that he takes over, and Stiles can settle Cora back into her seat with a complimentary shake to repay her. Scott spills chocolate sauce over his arm, and she _has_ to notice the way Stiles' eyes almost automatically track the couple of paper towels he grabs, but he misses the small smile she looks away with.

There's only so much work he can pretend to be doing around the register area most days, and at some point he just gives up the pretense. Scott doesn't mind picking up the slack because Scott's literally the best buddy a guy could ask for, and he knows that Stiles has his back whenever he sneaks out during one of Allison's breaks. It's a workable system.

It's almost by accident that he tells her about his mom. They weren't even on a particularly related topic, he doesn't think. She listens, doesn't say anything, but the next time she comes she mentions that her parents used to run a wolf sanctuary a little further south before they were killed in a house fire. She talks about it confidently, like their work was awesome and she knows it, but there's still an undercurrent of apprehension, and Stiles guesses she maybe doesn't get to brag a lot.

Well, _he_ thinks it's awesome.

She's living with her big brother and his roommate, he already knew, but he later finds out it's because he and their older sister were finally granted guardianship of her after years of petitioning since the death of their parents. She's still getting used to having her own space, her own things, and he gets that. It feels to him sometimes like he's trying to fill space, with other things and other people.

Her brother means well, Stiles figures out, but he gets a lot of stuff wrong. He doesn't know how to handle a teenage kid, though Cora insists she doesn't need 'handling'. She's in such a fury about whatever fight they've just had one time that Stiles doesn't even register it when he switches out her finished shake for a fresh one, he just does it. She falters in her annoyed fuming, staring at a bead of condensation that drips its way steadily down the cold glass.

"What is it, did I make it wrong?" He starts when she doesn't continue, worried.

She shakes her head. "No."

He waits, but she doesn't elaborate. Scott calls him over to help with the man delivering boxes of cones, so it would have to wait anyway.

***

He's refilling the crushed nuts and waiting for her to appear one day so he can give her the good news — simultaneously wondering when his level or interest in this job became so dependant on her arrival — when he hears her voice behind him ordering a Macho Macho Mint.

Except he knows even before he looks that it isn't her, because since the first day she has point blank refused to ask for it by its quote-unquote dumb name.

Indeed it's not her. Scott's taking the order of a young woman who's perhaps in her early twenties, with thick dark hair that clearly involves a lot more maintenance than Cora's usual loose or fast, out-of-her-face style, and a belly that's very obviously pregnant. Those aside, the resemblance is uncanny.

The woman who must be Cora's older sister fixes on his wide-eyed gaze, behind an oblivious Scott, and when her face splits into one easy grin he figures out why she has to be here. Presumably the older siblings are worried that their freshly-returned-to-them baby sister is spending so much time out of the house, potentially falling in with all types. Imagine their relief to find out it's simply the nerdy cashier at the ice cream store.

He still hasn't ruled out a gang in her spare time.

Motorcycle gang, maybe. Or he could convince her to start one of their own.

He wonders if this was her first stop and tries to fake nonchalance, turning to continue filling the cannister. The effect is ruined almost immediately when she beams at him. "Hi. I'm Laura Hale." Like it's a totally normal sequitur to her.

Thinking he's being addressed, Scott looks up in surprise, follows her stare to Stiles, and then back to Laura — then he hands the scoop to Stiles and steps away. "I'm gonna leave you guys alone."

Stiles flashes him a smile that hopefully doesn't say 'save me please God' as he turns away, but if it does then Scott ignores it because he just heads into the back.

The two of them are left alone in the shop. No one buys ice cream in the morning (seriously, why are they even _open_ ), so there's no witnesses if she decides to kill him, because heavily pregnant or not, she could seriously take him.

He tosses the scoop between both hands idly, and then reaches one out over the counter. "Stiles."

Laura shakes his hand before settling back with a critical gaze that makes him feel positively violated as he obediently scoops out her order. He tries to ignore the way she's eyeing him, but it's hard, and he almost wants to snap at her to stop. Instead something better occurs to him.

He hesitates with the ice cream in between them. " _Laura and Cora_?"

She snatches it from him and tucks it into her bag, unbothered. "You wanna tease her about it, go right ahead."

No, he does not want. "I'm good, thanks." Then he remembers the third sibling. "So your brother's, what... Jorah? Rory?" Half-rhymes are close enough to make it work, he thinks. Bonus points for the Game of Thrones ref.

She does not look impressed. "Derek, actually. But I'll tell him you said that."

Derek. It isn't a common name anyway, but he wrinkles his nose, trying to figure out why it sounded so familiar. Laura Hale, Derek _Hale_. He casts his mind back and it doesn't take long for it to hit him like a smack in the face: the Hale House fire. It had to be like six or seven years ago, right around the time his mom had gone into remission, so he doesn't remember the news that well. But by the same time next year, his father was settling him in a corner of his office reading old case files to keep him busy when they couldn't get a sitter. He read the whole thing before his dad even noticed it probably wasn't appropriate for his age.

He looks back up to see apprehensive eyes on him. She probably knows that he knows her family's history — a large group of people burning to death tends to hit the papers pretty hard, he can't even imagine what she must go through every time she introduces herself — and for a second or two she looks as young as Cora. He can't tell what she thinks he might say. He has no idea what he thinks he wants to say.

Suddenly having real, concrete information about the tragedy makes it a whole lot more present.

"Cash or card?" He manages finally.

Her face doesn't relax exactly, but something in it softens as she hands over the payment. Stiles is expecting the be-careful-with-her speech (ha), and he's already planning what he's sure is a hilarious comeback about her rehearsing it in the mirror. He's not expecting the sweet-sounding, "You should come for dinner." Though in retrospect, he should have been prepared for something that bad.

Stiles quite spectacularly drops the entire handful of change. The coins clatter onto the counter and he scrambles to sweep them back into his palm, fumbling to hand them over. "Um. What? I don't, uh."

Laura watches him with a crinkle of amusement in the edges of her eyes. "Well, you're dating Cora, we're her closest family... It's been weeks. I'm sure Derek would love to meet you."

 _He's dating Cora?_ It's news to him. He stalls, his hands useless in the air between them. He thought they were just... talking. While he worked. He mentions when his days off are sometimes, but only to stop her from bothering to come in if he wasn't around. Neither of them had actually made a effort to take it outside the store.

Did the talking count as dating? Why did the damn definitions have to be so vague? Sure, so he's maybe told her more than he tells anyone else, except Scott. And he doesn't know much about her other relationships, aside from her inexplicable buddyship with Boyd and, he guesses, Erica, so he can't speak to her side on that. But there hasn't been anything close to kissing happening. She held his hand last week, for a minute while he guided her through a puddle after Scott left the bucket of mop water in the aisle and he tripped over it, but they were laughing more than anything else.

But _dating_?

He hasn't even asked her for her number, not again, even though he's more or less written off finding the one she already gave him. She seems content enough to keep him company.

"I don't think..." He says carefully, trying again to give her the change. "We're not... Not that I wouldn't, because — _Cora_ , and she's great, really—" he has the distinct feeling that this is not the way to convince a girl's family to like him, and finally decides to just go for it. "We're not actually dating. We just talk."

She raises her eyebrows, as though waiting for him to elaborate. Huh.

"If you're sure..." She finally says, clearly unconvinced, but she takes the change. "Maybe another time."

Stiles nods, taking anything he can to get him out of this conversation. He watches her turn to leave, and suddenly Scott's by his elbow. "Hey."

Stiles is still stuck somewhere in the realisation that he might be dating someone without knowing, so all he can give him is an absent, "Hey."

"Remember when I met Allison's dad?" Scott points out, and Stiles has to agree. It could have gone a lot worse. Of course, it also could have gone a lot better. Or not gone at all, seeing as... nothing's actually happening between them.

Or... maybe something's happening.

"Sorry — again — but I'm gonna need to borrow a phone from one of you boys." Laura's voice interrupts them, and Stiles looks up; by the time he's registered how strained her voice is and how heavily she's leaning on the counter for support, Scott's already racing around the counter, tearing off his apron and moving to guide her to a seat.

Stiles can't help the glance, but the second he catches sight of the soaking wet patch on Laura's jeans, he blanches and scrambles for the phone. "Crap, crap...." He mutters, unhooking it from its charger and rejoining them. Scott's talking to Laura, words that he's trying not to listen too closely to about contractions and premature labour — oh, God, that was bad, wasn't it? Laura's white-faced and gripping the edge of the table tightly, but neither of them seem excessively worried, so that had to be something.

He crosses the shop floor in three seconds and pulls the door to, flipping the sign to closed. The last thing they need is someone coming in obliviously.

Scott grabs his arm on his way back over. "Stiles. You okay?"

"Wha— Am _I_ okay?" Like there isn't a woman in very painful and potentially problematic labour two feet away. "I'm fine, dude. I'm good."

"You sure?" Scott's got his extra easy half-smile on his face, the one that can read Stiles like a book. "Cause if I didn't know better, I'd say you were freaking out."

Before Stiles can defend himself, because — hello! Literal woman giving birth _on their floor_! — Scott just laughs. "Stiles, it's okay." He motions to Laura, who's pale but not panicking. "The contractions aren't even that close yet."

"Four minutes," Laura supplies, holding up a hand. Then her brow creases and she gasps as another one hits, and Scott retreats to take her hand.

"See? It's okay. People have been doing this forever."

" _People_ , Scott. _Other people_. What you do in your free time is your own business, but I — personally — have not been 'doing this forever'," Stiles hisses, fidgeting with the phone.

Scott doesn't engage him, just grins. "You don't have to panic. It's right on time, there're no other conditions... She's got plenty of time to get to a hospital."

Something in Scott's easy manner and bizarrely relaxed control of the situation must finally sink in, because Stiles feels the tension in his shoulders sag slightly. He's never been more heartfelt than when he steps forward and says, "I'm so glad you're here, buddy."

"I'd like to second that," Laura says breathlessly beside Scott, who's crouched next to her. "Better you than Mr. Rapid Responder over here..."

Scott grins and Stiles gapes in indignation — this is dumb, he _can too_ deal with high pressure situations, just maybe not with as much grace — but Scott's turning to him before he can start a fight with the pregnant woman. "Can you get me some stuff? I need some towels, and some warm water — and you gotta call the ambulance, dude."

"Yeah — oh my God—" Stiles fumbles with the phone in his grip like he'd forgotten it was there. "I got it. Anything else?"

"Just that. You feeling okay?" He's turning back to Laura who nods, shakily, and Stiles knows he's been dismissed.

He steps around the splashes of water on the floor and he knows he's probably making a face but he can't help it — sure, it's the miracle of life and it's totally natural, but also _gross_. He darts around to fill up a bowl with water and grabs all the clean dishtowels he can find, and then a fistful of paper towels just for good measure. Leaving them by Scott, who thanks him — what is he even going to do with those, anyway? Why does everyone always ask for them? He thought it was just something they did on TV — Stiles moves away to call 911.

He's pretty sure Laura and Scott can tell there's something wrong by the slightly elevated sound of his, " _What?!_ " from the other side of the room, but he waits until he's hung up to give them the bad news.

"Uh, problem." No shit. Stiles sighs, slapping the phone into his other palm. "There was some big pile-up on the other side of town. They're backlogged, trying to figure out priorities. It could take a while."

Laura cries out in pain, though he can see her biting her lip to contain it, and he scrambles forward to help. He can't do much except let her grip his hand and squeeze it tightly, but it seems to be all she needs. Well, outside of a real doctor and a clean hospital bed, of course.

"You can take her!" Scott says, and it takes Stiles a second to catch up.

"Can't you?"

"I took the bike to work today. Mom needed the car." Scott looks almost apologetically at Laura, as though she'd demand he took her anyway.

"We don't even _know_ each other." Stiles points out. "I can call someone, you want me to call—"

Laura's already shaking her head. "Cell phone's dead. All those hours of Candy Crush coming back to bite me in the ass. Who memorises numbers anymore?" She jokes half-heartedly. Stiles sympathises.

"You have a car?" Laura says, one hand protectively wrapped around her bump and sweat beading on her forehead. He nods dumbly. "Any chance you could give a girl a ride?"

She's trying to kid around, but Stiles can tell the obvious pain she's in, and the trepidation she's clearly feeling. Scott can reassure them about normal childbirth until he's blue in the face, but it's a whole other story when it's just the three of them.

"Well... When you put it like that..." He says feebly.

Scott wastes no time in helping her to her feet, and Stiles hooks her bag over one shoulder and then moves to take over Scott's role. Once she's on her feet she seems fine enough to walk by herself, which is probably a reassuring sign, so Stiles moves to hold the door open for her — and then stops.

"Wait!"

Scott's holding the pile of paper towels that Stiles grabbed for him, and there's already several littering the floor to soak up the patches of wetness. He feels a little bad leaving Scott behind to clean up, but that's not what he's looking at right now.

Both of them watch him, alarmed, as he runs over to snatch the stack from Scott. There, right there — the precious next one in the pile, so nearly discarded on the floor like trash, in tiny black numbers along one edge: a phone number.

He laughs in triumph, holding it up. Neither of them react. It's not quite the parade he was hoping for.

"This is it! It's her phone number!" He explains. Still nothing. Even Scott looks blank. "Holy God, do you listen to anything I say?"

Laura's looking distinctly aggravated.

"That's cool, it can probably wait. Okay." He follows her out, and doesn't even get offended at her pained look when he heads over to unlock the Jeep. Once they're both situated, he gets the precious serviette out again and starts dialling. Better sooner than too late.

She picks up on the fourth ring. " _Hello?_ "

"Cora! Cora, hi!" He half-laughs, more relieved than he thought he'd be to hear her voice.

" _Stiles..._ " She sounds pleased, if puzzled, by his enthusiasm. " _I was starting to think you... weren't gonna call._ "

"No, God no. I mean, yeah. Of course. I definitely wanted to call you — and would have, too, if I had—" Laura clears her throat in the passenger seat, and Stiles flounders. "You know what, I'm just gonna, uh, give the phone to your sister here."

" _My sister...? What—_ "

Laura takes it from him as he rushes the sentence out, and he can hear the confusion in her query right before Laura presses the phone against her own ear. He starts the car and then remembers he's still wearing his stupid hat, and tosses it in the back before he reverses out.

"Cora, sweetie," Laura's saying calmly into the phone, but Stiles can hear the strain under it. "I need you to call Tom for me, can you do that? Tell him he needs to bring the bag, and I'll meet him at the hospital."

Stiles tunes it out, mostly, focusing on driving speedily but carefully — an accident right now would be the _last_ thing they needed, the two of them stranded with no help — until Laura side-eyes him and says slyly, "Who, Stiles? Oh, just chatting. I hear you've been doing that a lot, lately."

Stiles rolls his eyes, shaking his head. Perfect. No, yeah. This was exactly how he wanted his day to go.

He glances back over when he hears a soft " _Oh..._ " from the passenger side. Laura's finished on the phone, and she has both hands pressed against her belly, her face scrunched in pain. He hesitates, then reaches a hand across the gearstick, palm up, for her to thread her fingers into and squeeze as hard as she needs to. After a moment she does, tentatively.

"Uhh... You should probably ask if they have a freezer or something." He points out, glancing at Laura's bag and remembering the ice cream tucked inside.

She laughs.

 

***

 

He's not sure what to do when they get to the hospital. On the one hand, she's perfectly safe and in professional hands, and he should really be helping Scott clean up and scrub down the shop. On the other... It's Cora's sister, and she doesn't have anyone else waiting here for her yet. And it feels weird just _leaving_.

He decides to settle down in one of the chairs by the reception, and bail the second he overhears anyone ask about Laura Hale.

There's a magazine up in front of his face, some pamphlet about the menstrual cycle, or — who cares, he's not even really reading it. The _entire_ stealth effect, however, is completely ruined when the whole thing is snatched away from him, making him practically jump out of his skin as someone sits bodily down in the seat beside him.

"You're still here." Cora says, accusingly.

"Yeah..." Stiles straightens up in his seat, a hand awkwardly scratching at his head. Crap. Getting caught was not part of the plan. "...I can't explain that."

"No, it's... Alright." She says carefully, one hand on his knee to stall his attempt at leaving. He hesitates, and then lowers himself back into the seat. There's a pause, where Stiles is almost certain he's supposed to be saying something, before he remembers what's folded up neatly in his back pocket.

He tugs it out and smooths it flat against his leg, glancing at her. She's watching his hands move, and he slyly flexes his fingers a little more than strictly necessary.

She clears her throat and looks away, down the corridor.

"So... did you mean what you said, about calling?" Stiles says cautiously after a beat, fiddling with a corner of the paper (not the important corner). Cora looks back at him contemplatively. "It's just that... Well, we're getting this new ice cream flavour in pretty soon. My boss thinks it should be called _Pear-Wolves_ , for some reason. I tried to talk him out of it, but he already had all these signs made up, you know—"

He's not expecting her to swing her leg over both of his to sit in his lap, and even less expecting the way her eyes flick to meet his own, shyly, before her mouth is on his, needier and much softer than he imagined.

Not that he's complaining.

 

***

 

Laura forces him to come to dinner the next month. It's almost two solid hours of paralysing fear, until Cora tangles her leg around his under the table.

He and Scott need to have a talk about hot girlfriends and their terrifying families.

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked you:
> 
> _you should do a cora/stiles where stiles works at an ice cream place and idk laura is pregnant or something so she's always asking cora to get her ice cream and so she takes longer and longer to come back because she ends up talking with stiles so much each time. *g*_
> 
>    
> the cutest prompt pls and i turned it into this
> 
> moment of silence for all the ice cream puns i came up with and plum forgot to use
> 
> if you're hardcore cora/stiles or if you're just interested about the way they interact or if u just really like reading aus then ur cool w/ me
> 
> i'm probably talking about stora on [tumbly](http://buttmccalls.tumblr.com) right now tbh. if u have any prompts ur welcome to see how i can "interpret" them


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